Traces of Human
by Huntress of the stars
Summary: Anakin returns to Naboo as Vader, to visit Padme's grave, and contemplates his fate. One-shot. Random fluff. AnakinPadme. Please don't hate me.


Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars, any of its characters, blah, blah, blah.

Alright, I haven't actually watched episode three yet, but I'm gonna, I'm gonna... So try to ignore any incorrect data I may have incorrectly included here. This is a one-shot fluffy thing I made up for some reason, so don't expect much. It's basically Anakin (as Vader) returning to Padme's grave on Naboo and...Well, just read it and tell me what you think. Please.

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**Traces of Human**

How long had it been? The stars still shone in the sky, just as they had all those years ago. There was a mist about his boots, a mist he had once believed to be beautiful. The palace was asleep; none knew his presence. None felt him, climbing past the palace. One surge of anger would kill all in sight; he could do so now, leave none alive. But he couldn't. Not here.

The morning dew was gathering – the bottom of his cape was soaked. Why had he come here? Here, where the strength of his past grew and overwhelmed him? Here, where he knew he could be found, tortured. He would die defending his master, die defending the dark.

Anakin saw her, every moment, in his wake. He dreamed that she lived, walked with him in gardens untainted by darkness. And he tasted his own bitter hate of all. All but her.

There was nothing in the world that mattered but serving his master. Serve, kill, and there will be no pain. But the faces of his victims lived on, haunted him each night. When he did not dream of his happiness, he dreamed of her, standing with the hundreds of dead, staring. He never saw her expression; whether it was pained or angry, Anakin did not know. But every detail of her face shone greater than the stars, as one, gathered against him. She watched over him always, and when she wept, the tears welled up in his eyes. But he could not cry. The master would know.

There it was. A lone tombstone amid a field of thousands like it. Fresh flowers had been put at its base. Anakin did not read the inscription, for he knew what belonged in the grave. Some unseen force pushed the hardened warrior on his knees, and he took the mask off before her. There she was, young and beautiful, just as he remembered her. She bent down and kissed his brow.

"Why did you leave me, Anakin? I have been waiting."

Her face was serene, untroubled. Had she forgotten? He couldn't speak. No breath of his would ever mend the pain, the terror he had inflicted upon her. She would never forgive him, just as he could never forgive himself. It was too late now; Anakin was gone. He was but a shell, a helmeted slave of the dark. Without her, there was nothing but shadow.

Yet there she stood. Was she a memory, a creation of his growing madness? Was she a vision sent to drive him to the Jedi arms? She kneeled by him, and traced the edges of his face. A frown formed on her lips.

"There are scars," she said, "and your skin…"

He brought her hand away. She could not be an apparition – why was he able to touch her?

"Who are you?" he breathed, closing his eyes. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he tasted her sweet breath.

"I am waiting."

When he opened his eyes, she was standing again.

"Where are they?"

The thoughts swirled in his head until one solid beam forced the emotion from him in one final blast. He threw his mask against the tombstone, heard it rattle the wood. "They are alive." Those words were all he needed. The truth passed through them, a northern wind that captured them together for a moment and faded.

The hills were wet with dew and the stars glistened in the sky. A lone tombstone stood, fresh flowers at its base. And a black figure kneeled, weeping bleeding tears at some memory, some insane imagined out-of focus dream he had not had for years. But when the heat tugged at him, he would return. He would put on his leash and become, once more, the dog of darkness. The hound that killed for blood and sought freedom. A hate rose in him, an anger at all that had ever touched him in his lifetime, a lust for vengeance that he had felt only once before. But he held his bloodlust, saved the anger for the proper time to kill.

He fingered the weapon at his belt and contemplated drawing it, perhaps slicing the grey stone and letting the pieces fall as his angel had fallen. Only this time she would die in his arms. Only this time he would watch the shards fall, and know precisely where he'd gone wrong.

Maybe he'd start again. Maybe she'd forgive him this time. Maybe this was nightmare that he would wake from, to find his beautiful Padme beside him, asleep. He had made a mistake. Though he knew not where, nor why he had made it, and his creation would not let him rest until all ends were made. She was waiting, and would wait until the end of time until Anakin returned.

The cold dirt sank through to his human arm, and he felt it crawling through his senses. There had been a time when they were immortal, forever in love, forever together. When they had been young, free, without the burden of impeding fate. Without betrayal.

He had not known weakness, but the fear had ever plagued him. Now he had no fear. If he was killed, he would be with her. He made no mistakes, for there are no mistakes made in killing. Love had been a weakness once, but now it was but a nightmare, a memory. He could obey his master without the bother of her leaking into his thoughts at every moment.

When he looked at his reflection in the helmet, he saw death. A weeping death upon the ground before the grave of a mortal he had loved once.

Tendrils of flame swept past him, and he stood. All thoughts of what had been were dead, buried. There was nothing but the lone figure in the distance, a waving robe beckoning to the man that had once been in love.


End file.
